\ n i r~\ . i - THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA Rare Books Department GIFT OF Estate of S. H. Cowell Wordsworth's Sonnets LJCJCV William Wordsworth The Riverside Press Table of First Lines NATURE The world is too much with us; late and soon, 1 Earth has not anything to show more fair : 2 It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, 3 With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the sky, 4 With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, 5 Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go ? 6 I dropped my pen; and listened to the Wind 7 How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright 8 The Shepherd, looking eastward, softly said, 9 Brook ! whose society the Poet seeks, 1 One who was suffering tumult in his soul, 1 1 Clouds, lingering yet, extend in solid bars 1 2 Lone Flower, hemmed in with snows and white as they 1 3 There is a little unpretending Rill 14 There 7 s not a nook within this solemn Pass, 1 5 4 There ! ' said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride 1 6 Hark ! 't is the Thrush, undaunted, undeprest, 1 7 Motions and Means, on land and sea at war 1 8 'Beloved Vale!' I said, 'when I shall con' 19 Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that played 20 Those words were uttered as in pensive mood 21 Well may'st thou halt and gaze with brightening eye ! 22 Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour ! 23 Is then no nook of English ground secure 24 MAN Fair Star of evening, Splendour of the west, 25 Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men ! 26 Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee; 27 O Friend! I know not which way I must look 28 Milton ! thou should'st be living at this hour : 29 Great men have been among us; hands that penned 30 Calvert! it must not be unheard by them 3 1 Two Voices are there ; one is of the sea, 32 Though narrow be that old Man's cares, and near, 3 3 Say, what is Honour ? 'T is the finest sense 34 A vaunt all specious pliancy of mind 35 The power of Armies is a visible thing, 36 Affections lose their object; Time brings forth 37 Young England what is then become of Old, 38 Discourse was deemed Man's noblest attribute, 39 I, who accompanied with faithful pace 4O Behold a pupil of the monkish gown, 41 When thy great soul was freed from mortal chains, 42 A pleasant music floats along the Mere, 43 The woman-hearted Confessor prepares 44 The turbaned Race are poured in thickening swarms 45 There are no colours in the fairest sky 46 Well worthy to be magnified are they 47 Why sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled, 48 THE POET Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frowned, 49 Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room ; 5O There is a pleasure in poetic pains 5 1 A Poet ! He hath put his heart to school, 5 2 Praised be the Art whose subtle power could stay 5 3 High is our calling, Friend ! Creative Art 54 Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth ! 5 5 Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell 56 I am not One who much or oft delight 5 7 4 Yet life,' you say,' is life; we have seen and see,' 58 Wings have we, and as far as we can go, 59 Nor can I not believe but that hereby 60 gentle Sleep ! do they belong to thee, 6 1 A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by, 62 Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep ! 6 3 4 Why, Minstrel, these untuneful murmurings ' 64 Her only pilot the soft breeze, the boat 65 Surprised by joy impatient as the Wind 66 Weak is the will of Man, his judgment blind ; 6 7 Grief, thou hast lost an ever-ready friend 68 While flowing rivers yield a blameless sport, 69 Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 70 If these brief Records, by the Muses' art 71 Even so for me a Vision sanctified 72 Adieu, Rydalian Laurels ! that have grown 73 1 thought of Thee, my partner and my guide, 74> Serving no haughty Muse, my hands have here 75 ISiatu re C The world is too much with us ; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers : Little we see in Nature that is ours ; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ; For this, for everything, we are out of tune ; It moves us not. Great God ! I 'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. Earth has not anything to show more fair : Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty : This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky ; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill ; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! The river glideth at his own sweet will : Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; And all that mighty heart is lying still ! ' rf>> I ... 4 ilV J .{>'..;*> iron 'fli^J ciij fa srft-lo yttJiidd 3d C 3 3 It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity ; The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea : Listen ! the mighty Being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder everlastingly. Dear Child ! dear Girl ! that walkest with me here, If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, Thy nature is not therefore less divine : Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; And worship' st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not. With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb 'st the sky, 4 How silently, and with how wan a face ! ' Where art thou ? Thou so often seen on high Running among the clouds a Wood-nymph's race! Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath 's a sigh Which they would stifle, move at such a pace ! The northern Wind, to call thee to the chase, Must blow to-night his bugle horn. Had I The power of Merlin, Goddess ! this should be : And all the stars, fast as the clouds w r ere riven, Should sally forth, to keep thee company, Hurrying and sparkling through the clear blue heaven. But, Cynthia ! should to thee the palm be given, Queen both for beauty and for majesty. C s With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed ; Some lying fast at anchor in the road, Some veering up and down, one knew not why. A goodly Vessel did I then espy Come like a giant from a haven broad ; And lustily along the bay she strode, Her tackling rich, and of apparel high. This Ship was nought to me, nor I to her, Yet I pursued her with a Lover's look ; This Ship to all the rest did I prefer : When will she turn, and whither? She will brook No tarrying ; where She comes the winds must stir On went She, and due north her journey took. Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go? Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day, Festively she puts forth in trim array ; Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow? What boots the inquiry? Neither friend nor foe She cares for ; let her travel where she may, She finds familiar names, a beaten way Ever before her, and a wind to blow. Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark? And, almost as it was when ships were rare, (From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark, Of the old Sea some reverential fear, Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark ! til I dropped my pen ; and listened to the Wind That sang of trees uptorn and vessels tost A midnight harmony ; and wholly lost To the general sense of men by chains confined Of business, care, or pleasure ; or resigned To timely sleep. Thought I, the impassioned strain, Which, without aid of numbers, I sustain, Like acceptation from the World will find. Yet some with apprehensive ear shall drink A dirge devoutly breathed o'er sorrows past; And to the attendant promise will give heed The prophecy, like that of this wild blast, Which, while it makes the heart with sadness shrink, Tells also of bright calms that shall succeed. How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright The effluence from yon distant mountain's head, Which, strewn with snow smooth as the sky can shed, Shines like another sun on mortal sight Uprisen, as if to check approaching Night, And all her twinkling stars. Who now would tread, If so he might, yon mountain's glittering head Terrestrial, but a surface, by the flight Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing, Unswept, unstained? Nor shall the aerial Powers Dissolve that beauty, destined to endure, White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure, Through all vicissitudes, till genial Spring Has filled the laughing vales with welcome flowers. 1 9 The Shepherd, looking eastward, softly said, ' Bright is thy veil, O Moon, as thou art bright ! Forthwith, that little cloud, in ether spread And penetrated all with tender light, She cast away, and showed her fulgent head Uncovered; dazzling the Beholder's sight As if to vindicate her beauty's right Her beauty thoughtlessly disparaged. Meanwhile that veil, removed or thrown aside, Went floating from her, darkening as it went ; And a huge mass, to bury or to hide, Approached this glory of the firmament ; Who meekly yields, and is obscured content With one calm triumph of a modest pride. Brook ! whose society the Poet seeks, Intent his wasted spirits to renew ; And whom the curious Painter doth pursue Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks, And tracks thee dancing down thy water-breaks ; If wish were mine some type of thee to view, Thee, and not thee thyself, I would not do Like Grecian Artists, give thee human cheeks, Channels for tears; no Naiad should 'st thou be, Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints nor hairs : It seems the Eternal Soul is clothed in thee With purer robes than those of flesh and blood, And hath bestowed on thee a safer good ; Unwearied joy, and life without its cares. C One who was suffering tumult in his soul, Yet failed to seek the sure relief of prayer, Went forth his course surrendering to the care Of the fierce wind, while mid-day lightnings prowl Insidiously, untimely thunders growl ; While trees, dim-seen, in frenzied numbers, tear The lingering remnant of their yellow hair, And shivering wolves, surprised with darkness, howl As if the sun were not. He raised his eye Soul-smitten ; for, that instant, did appear Large space ('mid dreadful clouds) of purest sky, An azure disc shield of Tranquillity ; Invisible, unlooked-for, minister Of providential goodness ever nigh ! C Clouds, lingering yet, extend in solid bars Through the grey west ; and lo ! these waters, steeled By breezeless air to smoothest polish, yield A vivid repetition of the stars ; Jove, Venus, and the ruddy crest of Mars Amid his fellows beauteously revealed At happy distance from earth's groaning field, Where ruthless mortals wage incessant wars. Is it a mirror? or the nether Sphere Opening to view the abyss in which she feeds Her own calm fires? But list ! a voice is near ; Great Pan himself low- whispering through the reeds, 'Be thankful, thou ; for, if unholy deeds Ravage the world, tranquillity is here ! ' C Lone Flower, hemmed in with snows and white as they* But hardier far, once more I see thee bend Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend, Like an unbidden guest. Though day by day, Storms, sallying from the mountain- tops, waylay The rising sun, and on the plains descend ; Yet art thou welcome, welcome as a friend Whose zeal outruns his promise ! Blue-eyed May Shall soon behold this border thickly set With bright jonquils, their odours lavishing On the soft west- wind and his frolic peers ; Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste Snowdrop, venturous harbinger of Spring, And pensive monitor of fleeting years ! c There is a little unpretending Rill Of limpid water, humbler far than aught That ever among Men or Naiads sought Notice or name ! It quivers down the hill, Furrowing its shallow way with dubious will; Yet to my mind this scanty Stream is brought Oftener than Ganges or the Nile ; a thought Of private recollection sweet and still ! Months perish with their moons ; year treads on year ! But, faithful Emma ! thou with me canst say That, while ten thousand pleasures disappear, And flies their memory fast almost as they ; The immortal Spirit of one happy day Lingers beside that Rill, in vision clear. C ls There 's not a nook within this solemn Pass But were an apt confessional for One Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, That Life is but a tale of morning grass Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest, If from a golden perch of aspen spray (October's workmanship to rival May) The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast That moral sweeten by a heaven- taught lay, Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest! * There ! ' said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride Towards a low roof with green trees half concealed, 4 Is Mosgiel Farm ; and that 's the very field Where Burns ploughed up the Daisy.' Far and wide A plain below stretched seaward, while, descried Above sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran rose; And, by that simple notice, the repose Of earth, sky, sea, and air, was vivified. Beneath ' the random bield of clod or stone ' Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away ; less happy than the One That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love. t Hark! 'tis the Thrush, undaunted, undeprest, By twilight premature of cloud and rain ; Nor does that roaring wind deaden his strain Who carols thinking of his Love and nest, And seems, as more incited, still more blest. Thanks; thou hast snapped a fireside Prisoner's chain, Exulting Warbler! eased a fretted brain, And in a moment charmed my cares to rest. Yes, I will forth, bold Bird ! and front the blast, That we may sing together, if thou wilt, So loud, so clear, my Partner through life's day, Mute in her nest love-chosen, if not love-built Like thine, shall gladden, as in seasons past, Thrilled by loose snatches of the social Lay. C 18 3 Motions and Means, on land and sea at war With old poetic feeling, not for this, Shall ye by Poets even, be judged amiss ! Nor shall your presence, howsoe'er it mar The loveliness of Nature, prove a bar To the Mind's gaining that prophetic sense Of future change, that point of vision, whence May be discovered what in soul ye are. In spite of all that beauty may disown In your harsh features, Nature doth embrace Her lawful offspring in Man's art; and Time, Pleased with your triumphs o'er his brother Space, Accepts from your bold hands the proffered crown Of hope, and smiles on you with cheer sublime. C 4 Beloved Vale ! ' I said, * when I shall con Those many records of my childish years, Remembrance of myself and of my peers Will press me down : to think of what is gone Will be an awful thought, if life have one. ' But, when into the Vale I came, no fears Distressed me ; from mine eyes escaped no tears ; Deep thought, or dread remembrance, had I none, By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost I stood, of simple shame the blushing Thrall ; So narrow seemed the brooks, the fields so small ! A Juggler's balls old Time about him tossed ; I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed ; and all The weight of sadness was in wonder lost. [20] Sole listener, Duddon ! to the breeze that played With thy clear voice, I caught the fitful sound Wafted o'er sullen moss and craggy mound Unfruitful solitudes, that seemed to upbraid The sun in heaven ! but now, to form a shade For Thee, green alders have together wound Their foliage ; ashes flung their arms around ; And birch-trees risen in silver colonnade. And thou hast also tempted here to rise, 'Mid sheltering pines, this Cottage rude and grey; Whose ruddy children, by the mother's eyes Carelessly watched, sport through the summer day, Thy pleased associates : light as endless May On infant bosoms lonely Nature lies. 4 they are of the sky, And from our earthly memory fade away.' Those words were uttered as in pensive mood We turned, departing from that solemn sight: A contrast and reproach to gross delight, And life's unspiritual pleasures daily wooed ! But now upon this thought I cannot brood ; It is unstable as a dream of night ; Nor will I praise a cloud, however bright, Disparaging Man's gifts, and proper food. Grove, isle, with every shape of sky-built dome, Though clad in colours beautiful and pure, Find in the heart of man no natural home : The immortal Mind craves objects that endure: These cleave to it; from these it cannot roam, Nor they from it : their fellowship is secure. C 22 3 Well may'st thou halt and gaze with brightening eye ! The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook Hath stirred thee deeply ; with its own dear brook, Its own small pasture, almost its own sky ! But covet not the Abode ; forbear to sigh, As many do, repining while they look ; Intruders who would tear from Nature's book This precious leaf, with harsh impiety. Think what the home must be if it were thine, Even thine, though few thy wants ! Roof, window, door, The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, The roses to the porch which they entwine : Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day On which it should be touched, would melt away. n 2s 3 Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour! Not dull art Thou as undiscerning Night ; But studious only to remove from sight Day's mutable distinctions. Ancient Power! Thus did the waters gleam, the mountains lower, To the rude Briton, when, in wolf-skin vest Here roving wild, he laid him down to rest On the bare rock, or through a leafy bower Looked ere his eyes were closed. By him was seen The self-same Vision which we now behold, At thy meek bidding, shadowy Power ! brought forth These mighty barriers, and the gulf between; The flood, the stars, a spectacle as old As the beginning of the heavens and earth ! Is then no nook of English ground secure From rash assault? Schemes of retirement sown In youth, and 'mid the busy world kept pure As when their earliest flowers of hope were blown, Must perish ; how can they this blight endure? And must he too the ruthless change bemoan Who scorns a false utilitarian lure 'Mid his paternal fields at random thrown? Baffle the threat, bright Scene, from Orrest-head Given to the pausing traveller's rapturous glance: Plead for thy peace, thou beautiful romance Of nature ; and, if human hearts be dead, Speak, passing winds ; ye torrents, with your strong And constant voice, protest against the wrong. Man Fair Star of evening, Splendour of the west, Star of my Country ! on the horizon's brink Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink On England's bosom ; yet well pleased to rest, Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think, Should' st be my Country's emblem; and should'st wink, Bright- Star ! with laughter on her banners, drest In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot Beneath thee,that is England; there she lies. Blessings be on you both ! one hope, one lot, One life, one glory ! I, with many a fear For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs, Among men who do not love her, linger here. OflO [26 Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men ! Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough Within thy hearing, or thy head be now Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den ; O miserable Chieftain ! where and when Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow : Though fallen thyself, never to rise again, Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind Powers that will work for thee ; air, earth, and skies ; There 's not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee; thou hast great allies; Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man's unconquerable mind. 3 Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee ; And was the safeguard of the west : the worth Of Venice did not fall below her birth, Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. She was a maiden City, bright and free ; No guile seduced, no force could violate ; And, when she took unto herself a Mate, She must espouse the everlasting Sea. And what if she had seen those glories fade, Those titles vanish, and that strength decay ; Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid When her long life hath reached its final day : Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade Of that which once was great, is passed away. O O Friend ! I know not which way I must look For comfort, being, as I am, opprest, To think that now our life is only drest For show ; mean handy- work of craftsman, cook, Or groom ! We must run glittering like a brook In the open sunshine, or we are unblest : The wealthiest man among us is the best : No grandeur now in nature or in book Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry ; and these we adore : Plain living and high thinking are no more : The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone ; our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws. Milton! thou should 'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee : she is a fen Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; And give* us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea : Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay. n 3 Great men have been among us ; hands that penned And tongues that uttered wisdom better none: The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington, Young Vane, and others who called Milton friend. These moralists could act and comprehend : They knew how genuine glory was put on ; Taught us how rightfully a nation shone In splendour : what strength was, that would not bend But in magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange, Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then. Perpetual emptiness ! unceasing change ! No single volume paramount, no code, No master spirit, no determined road ; But equally a want of books and men ! C 31 Calvert ! it must not be unheard by them Who may respect my name, that I to thee Owed many years of early liberty. This care was thine when sickness did condemn Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem That I, if frugal and severe, might stray Where'er I liked ; and finally array My temples with the Muse's diadem. Hence, if in freedom I have loved the truth ; If there be aught of pure, or good, or great, In my past verse ; or shall be, in the lays Of higher mood, which now I meditate ; It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived, Youth ! To think how much of this will be thy praise. C 32 1 Two Voices are there ; one is of the sea, One of the mountains ; each a mighty Voice : In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, They were thy chosen music, Liberty ! There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee Thou fought' st against him ; but hast vainly striven Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft : Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left; For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be That Mountain floods should thunder as before, And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore, And neither awful Voice be heard by thee ! C 33 Though narrow be that old Man's cares, and near, The poor old Man is greater than he seems : For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams ; An ample sovereignty of eye and ear. Rich are his walks with supernatural cheer; The region of his inner spirit teems With vital sounds and monitory gleams Of high astonishment and pleasing fear. He the seven birds hath seen, that never part, Seen the SEVEN WHISTLERS in their nightly rounds, And counted them : and oftentimes will start For overhead are sweeping GABRIEL'S HOUNDS Doomed, with their impious Lord, the flying Hart To chase for ever, on aerial grounds ! C Say, what is Honour? 'T is the finest sense Of 'justice which the human mind can frame, Intent each lurking frailty to disclaim, And guard the way of life from all offence Suffered or done. When lawless violence Invades a Realm, so pressed that in the scale Of perilous war her weightiest armies fail, Honour is hopeful elevation, whence Glory, and triumph. Yet with politic skill Endangered States may yield to terms unjust; Stoop their proud heads, but not unto the dust A Foe's most favourite purpose to fulfil: Happy occasions oft by self-mistrust Are forfeited ; but infamy doth kill. C Avaunt all specious pliancy of mind In men of low degree, all smooth pretence ! I better like a blunt indifference, And self-respecting slowness, disinclined To win me at first sight : and be there joined Patience and temperance with this high reserve, Honour that knows the path and will not swerve ; Aifections, which, if put to proof, are kind ; And piety towards God. Such men of old Were England's native growth; and, throughout Spain (Thanks to high God) forests of such remain : Then for that Country let our hopes be bold ; For matched with these shall policy prove vain, Her arts, her strength, her iron, and her gold. C The power of Armies is a visible thing, Formal, and circumscribed in time and space; But who the limits of that power shall trace Which a brave People into light can bring Or hide, at will, for freedom combating By just revenge inflamed? No foot may chase, No eye can follow, to a fatal place That power, that spirit, whether on the wing Like the strong wind, or sleeping like the wind Within its awful caves. From year to year Springs this indigenous produce far and near ; No craft this subtle element can bind, i Rising like water from the soil, to find In every nook a lip that it may cheer. C Affections lose their object; Time brings forth No successors; and, lodged in memory, If love exist no longer, it must die, Wanting accustomed food, must pass from earth, Or never hope to reach a second birth. This sad belief, the happiest that is left To thousands, share not Thou ; howe'er bereft, Scorned, or neglected, fear not such a dearth. Though poor and destitute of friends thou art, Perhaps the sole survivor of thy race, One to whom Heaven assigns that mournful part The utmost solitude of age to face, Still shall be left some corner of the heart Where Love for living Thing can find a place. C 38 Young England what is then become of Old, Of dear Old England? Think they she is dead, Dead to the very name? Presumption fed On empty air ! That name will keep its hold In the true filial bosom's inmost fold For ever. The Spirit of Alfred, at the head Of all who for her rights watched, toiled, and bled, Knows that this prophecy is not too bold. What how ! shall she submit in will and deed To Beardless Boys an imitative race, The servumpecus of a Gallic breed? Dear Mother ! if thou must thy steps retrace, Go where at least meek Innocency dwells ; Let Babes and Sucklings be thy oracles. Discourse was deemed Man's noblest attribute, And written words the glory of his hand ; Then followed Printing with enlarged command For thought dominion vast and absolute For spreading truth, and making love expand. Now prose and verse sunk into disrepute Must lacquey a dumb Art that best can suit The taste of this once-intellectual Land. A backward movement surely have we here, From manhood, back to childhood ; for the age Back towards caverned life's first rude career. Avaunt this vile abuse of pictured page ! Must eyes be all in all, the tongue and ear Nothing? Heaven keep us from a lower stage! 40 3 FROM THE ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS INTRODUCTION I, who accompanied with faithful pace Cerulean Duddon from his cloud-fed spring, And loved with spirit ruled by his to sing Of mountain quiet and boon nature's grace; I, who essayed the nobler Stream to trace Of Liberty, and smote the plausive string Till the checked torrent, proudly triumphing, Won for herself a lasting resting-place ; Now seek upon the heights of Time the source Of a HOLY RIVER, on whose banks are found Sweet pastoral flowers, and laurels that have crowned Full oft the unworthy brow of lawless force ; And, for delight of him who tracks its course, Immortal amaranth and palms abound. 3 II ALFRED Behold a pupil of the monkish gown, The pious ALFRED, King to Justice dear ! Lord of the harp and liberating spear ; Mirror of Princes ! Indigent Renown Might range the starry ether for a crown Equal to his deserts, who, like the year, Pours forth his bounty, like the day doth cheer, And awes like night with mercy- tempered frown. Ease from this noble miser of his time No moment steals; pain narrows not his cares. Though small his kingdom as a spark or gem, Of Alfred boasts remote Jerusalem, And Christian India, through her wide-spread clime, In sacred converse gifts with Alfred shares. III HIS DESCENDANTS When thy great soul was freed from mortal chains, Darling of England ! many a bitter shower Fell on thy tomb ; but emulative power Flowed in thy line through undegenerate veins. The Race of Alfred covet glorious pains When dangers threaten, dangers ever new ! Black tempests bursting, blacker still in view ! But manly sovereignty its hold retains ; The root sincere, the branches bold to strive With the fierce tempest, while, within the round Of their protection, gentle virtues thrive ; As oft, 'mid some green plot of open ground, Wide as the oak extends its dewy gloom, The fostered hyacinths spread their purple bloom. O ] IV CANUTE A pleasant music floats along the Mere, From Monks in Ely chanting service high, While-as Canute the King is rowing by : ' My Oarsmen,' quoth the mighty King, * draw near, That we the sweet song of the Monks may hear ! ' He listens (all past conquests, and all schemes Of future, vanishing like empty dreams) Heart- touched, and haply not without a tear. The Royal Minstrel, ere the choir is still, While his free Barge skims the smooth flood along, Gives to that rapture an accordant Rhyme. O suffering Earth ! be thankful : sternest clime And rudest age are subject to the thrill Of heaven-descended Piety and Song. [44 THE NORMAN CONQUEST The woman-hearted Confessor prepares The evanescence of the Saxon line. Hark ! 't is the tolling Curfew ! the stars shine ; But of the lights that cherish household cares And festive gladness, burns not one that dares To twinkle after that dull stroke of thine, Emblem and instrument, from Thames to Tyne, Of force that daunts, and cunning that ensnares ! Yet as the terrors of the lordly bell, That quench, from hut to palace, lamps and fires, Touch not the tapers of the sacred quires ; Even so a thraldom, studious to expel Old laws, and ancient customs to derange, To Creed or Ritual brings no fatal change. VI CRUSADES The turbaned Race are poured in thickening swarms Along the west ; though driven from Aquitaine, The Crescent glitters on the towers of Spain ; And soft Italia feels renewed alarms ; The scimitar, that yields not to the charms Of ease, the narrow Bosphorus will disdain ; Nor long (that crossed) would Grecian hills detain Their tents, and check the current of their arms. Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever Known to the moral world, Imagination, Upheave, so seems it, from her natural station All Christendom : they sweep along (was never So huge a host !) to tear from the Unbeliever The precious Tomb, their haven of salvation. VII WALTON'S BOOK OF LIVES There are no colours in the fairest sky So fair as these. The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an Angel's wing. With moistened eye We read of faith and purest charity In Statesman, Priest, and humble Citizen : Oh could we copy their mild virtues, then What joy to live, what blessedness to die ! Methinks their very names shine still and bright ; Apart like glow-worms on a summer night; Or lonely tapers when from far they fling A guiding ray ; or seen like stars on high, Satellites burning in a lucid ring Around meek Walton's heavenly memory. 3 VIII THE PILGRIM FATHERS Well worthy to be magnified are they Who, with sad hearts, of friends and country took A last farewell, their loved abodes forsook, And hallowed ground in which their fathers lay ; Then to the new-found World explored their way, That so a Church, unforced, uncalled to brook Ritual restraints, within some sheltering nook Her Lord might worship and his word obey In freedom. Men they were who could not bend ; Blest Pilgrims, surely, as they took for guide A will by sovereign Conscience sanctified ; Blest while their Spirits from the woods ascend Along a Galaxy that knows no end, But in His glory who for sinners died. o n IX CONCLUSION Why sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled, Coil within coil, at noon-tide? For the WORD Yields, if with unpresumptuous faith explored, Power at whose touch the sluggard shall unfold His drowsy rings. Look forth ! that Stream behold, THAT STREAM upon whose bosom we have passed Floating at ease while nations have effaced Nations, and Death has gathered to his fold Long lines of mighty Kings look forth, my Soul ! (Nor in this vision be thou slow to trust) The living Waters, less and less by guilt Stained and polluted, brighten as they roll, Till they have reached the eternal City built For the perfected Spirit of the just ! The Poet Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakspeare unlocked his heart ; the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound ; A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ; With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief; The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned His visionary brow : a glow-worm lamp, It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faeryland To struggle through dark ways ; and, when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The Thing became a trumpet ; whence he blew Soul-animating strains alas, too few! C Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room ; And hermits are contented with their cells ; And students with their pensive citadels ; Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, Sit blithe and happy ; bees that soar for bloom, High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells, Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells : In truth the prison, into which we doom Ourselves, no prison is : and hence for me, In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground ; Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be) Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, Should find brief solace there, as I have found. There is a pleasure in poetic pains Which only Poets know; 't was rightly said ; Whom could the Muses else allure to tread Their smoothest paths, to wear their lightest chains? When happiest Fancy has inspired the strains, How oft the malice of one luckless word Pursues the Enthusiast to the social board, Haunts him belated on the silent plains ! Yet he repines not, if his thought stand clear, At last, of hindrance and obscurity, Fresh as the star that crowns the brow of morn ; Bright, speckless, as a softly-moulded tear The moment it has left the virgin's eye, Or rain-drop lingering on the pointed thorn. c: A Poet! He hath put his heart to school, Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff Which Art hath lodged within his hand must laugh By precept only, and shed tears by rule. Thy Art be Nature ; the live current quaff, And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool, In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph. How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold ; And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree Comes not by casting in a formal mould, But from its own divine vitality. Praised be the Art whose subtle power could stay Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape ; Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape, Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day ; Which stopped that band of travellers on their way, Ere they were lost within the shady wood ; And showed the Bark upon the glassy flood For ever anchored in her sheltering bay. Soul-soothing Art! whom Morning, Noontide, Even, Do serve with all their changeful pageantry ; Thou, with, ambition modest yet sublime, Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast given To one brief moment caught from fleeting time The appropriate calm of blest eternity. C High is our calling, Friend ! Creative Art (Whether the instrument of words she use, Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues,) Demands the service of a mind and heart, Though sensitive, yet, in their weakest part, Heroically fashioned to infuse Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse, While the whole world seems adverse to desert. And, oh ! when Nature sinks, as oft she may, Through long-lived pressure of obscure distress, Still to be strenuous for the bright reward, And in the soul admit of no decay, Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness Great is the glory, for the strife is hard ! C Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth ! In whose collegiate shelter England's Flowers Expand, enjoying through their vernal hours The air of liberty, the light of truth ; Much have ye suffered from Time's gnawing tooth : Yet, O ye spires of Oxford ! domes and towers ! Gardens and groves ! your presence overpowers The soberness of reason ; till, in sooth, Transformed, and rushing on a bold exchange, I slight my own beloved Cam, to range Where silver Isis leads my stripling feet ; Pace the long avenue, or glide adown The stream-like windings of that glorious street An eager Novice robed in fluttering gown ! Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change, Nor Duty struggling with afflictions strange Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell ; But where untroubled peace and concord dwell, There also is the Muse not loth to range, Watching the twilight smoke of cot or grange, Skyward ascending from a woody dell. Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavour, And sage content, and placid melancholy ; She loves to gaze upon a crystal river Diaphanous because it travels slowly ; Soft is the music that would charm for ever ; The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly. PERSONAL TALK \ I I am not One who much or oft delight To season my fireside with personal talk, Of friends, who live within an easy walk, Or neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight : And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright, Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk, These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night. Better than such discourse doth silence long, Long, barren silence, square with my desire ; To sit without emotion, hope, or aim, In the loved presence of my cottage-fire, And listen to the flapping of the flame, Or kettle whispering its faint undersong. II 4 Yet life,' you say, ' is life ; we have seen and see, And with a living pleasure we describe ; And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe The languid mind into activity. Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee Are fostered by the comment and the gibe.' Even be it so ; yet still among your tribe, Our daily world's true Worldlings, rank not me ! Children are blest, and powerful ; their world lies More justly balanced ; partly at their feet, And part far from them : sweetest melodies Are those that are by distance made more sweet ; Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes, He is a Slave ; the meanest we can meet ! C III Wings have we, and as far as we can go, We may find pleasure : wilderness and wood, Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood Which with the lofty sanctifies the low. Dreams, books, are each a world ; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good : Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow. There find I personal themes, a plenteous store, Matter wherein right voluble I am, To which I listen with a ready ear ; Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear, The gentle Lady married to the Moor ; And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb. c: IV Nor can I not believe but that hereby Great gains are mine ; for thus I live remote From evil-speaking ; rancour, never sought, Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie. Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought And thus from day to day my little boat Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably. Blessings be with them and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays ! Oh ! might my name be numbered among theirs, Then gladly would I end my mortal days. c: TO SLEEP I gentle Sleep ! do they belong to thee, These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove, A captive never wishing to be free. This tiresome night, O Sleep ! thou art to me A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove Upon a fretful rivulet, now above Now on the water vexed with mockery. 1 have no pain that calls for patience, no ; Hence am I cross and peevish as a child : Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe, Yet ever willing to be reconciled : O gentle Creature ! do not use me so, But once and deeply let me be beguiled. II A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by, One after one ; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring ; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky ; I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie Sleepless ! and soon the small birds' melodies Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees ; And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep ! by any stealth : So do not let me wear to-night away : Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health ! [63 III Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep ! And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names ; The very sweetest, Fancy culls or frames, When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep ! Dear bosom-child we call thee, that dost steep In rich reward all suffering ; Balm that tames All anguish ; Saint that evil thoughts and aims Takest away, and into souls dost creep, Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone, I surely not a man ungently made, Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost? Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown, Mere slave of them who never for thee prayed, Still last to come where thou art wanted most ! [ 64 ' Why, Minstrel, these untuneful murmurings Dull, flagging notes that with each other jar ? ' 4 Think, gentle Lady, of a Harp so far From its own country, and forgive the strings.' A simple answer! but even so forth springs, From the Castalian fountain of the heart, The Poetry of Life, and all that Art Divine of words quickening insensate things. From the submissive necks of guiltless men Stretched on the block, the glittering axe recoils ; Sun, moon, and stars, all struggle in the toils Of mortal sympathy ; what wonder then That the poor Harp distempered music yields To its sad Lord, far from his native fields ? Her only pilot the soft breeze, the boat Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied ; With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory, at her side, And the glad Muse at liberty to note All that to each is precious, as we float Gently along ; regardless who shall chide If the heavens smile, and leave us free to glide, Happy Associates breathing air remote From trivial cares. But, Fancy and the Muse, Why have I crowded this small bark with you And others of your kind, ideal crew ! While here sits One whose brightness owes its hues To flesh and blood ; no Goddess from above, No fleeting Spirit, but my own true love? Surprised by joy impatient as the Wind I turned to share the transport Oh ! with whom But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb, That spot which no vicissitude can find? Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind But how could I forget thee? Through what power, Even for the least division of an hour, Have I been so beguiled as to be blind To my most grievous loss? That thought's return Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more; That neither present time, nor years unborn Could to my sight that heavenly face restore. 4 Weak is the will of Man, his judgment blind ; Remembrance persecutes, and Hope betrays ; Heavy is woe ; and joy, for human-kind, A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze ! ' Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days Who wants the glorious faculty assigned To elevate the more-than-reasoning Mind, And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays. Imagination is that sacred power, Imagination lofty and refined ; : 'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of Faith, and round the Sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind. [ 68 Grief, thou hast lost an ever-ready friend Now that the cottage Spinning-wheel is mute ; And Care a comforter that best could suit Her froward mood, and softliest reprehend ; And Love a charmer's voice, that used to lend, More efficaciously than aught that flows From harp or lute, kind influence to compose The throbbing pulse else troubled without end : Even Joy could tell, Joy craving truce and rest From her own overflow, what power sedate On those revolving motions did await Assiduously to soothe her aching breast; And, to a point of just relief, abate The mantling triumphs of a day too blest. C 69 3 While flowing rivers yield a blameless sport, Shall live the nme of Walton : Sage benign ! Whose pen, the mysteries of the rod and line Unfolding, did not fruitlessly exhort To reverend watching of each still report That Nature utters from her rural shrine. Meek, nobly versed in simple discipline, He found the longest summer day too short, To his loved pastime given by sedgy Lee, Or down the tempting maze of Shawford brook Fairer than life itself, in this sweet Book, The cowslip-bank and shady willow-tree ; And the fresh meads where flowed, from every nook Of his full bosom, gladsome Piety ! Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes To pace the ground, if path be there or none, While a fair region round the traveller lies Which he forbears again to look upon ; Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene, The work of Fancy, or some happy tone Of meditation, slipping in between The beauty coming and the beauty gone. If Thought and Love desert us, from that day Let us break off all commerce with the Muse : With Thought and Love companions of our way, Whate'er the senses take or may refuse, The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews Of inspiration on the humblest lay. If these brief Records, by the Muses' art Produced as lonely Nature or the strife That animates the scenes of public life Inspired, may in thy leisure claim a part ; And if these Transcripts of the private heart Have gained a sanction from thy falling tears ; Then I repent not. But my soul hath fears Breathed from eternity ; for, as a dart Cleaves the blank air, Life flies : now every day Is but a glimmering spoke in the swift wheel Of the revolving week. Away, away, All fitful cares, all transitory zeal ! So timely Grace the immortal wing may heal, And honour rest upon the senseless clay. C Even so for me a Vision sanctified The sway of Death ; long ere mine eyes had seen Thy countenance the still rapture of thy mien When thou, dear Sister ! wert become Death's Bride : No trace of pain or languor could abide That change : age on thy brow was smoothed thy cold Wan cheek at once was privileged to unfold A loveliness to living youth denied. Oh ! if within me hope should e'er decline, The lamp of faith, lost Friend ! too faintly burn ; Then may that heaven-revealing smile of thine, The bright assurance, visibly return : And let my spirit in that power divine Rejoice, as, through that power, it ceased to mourn. Adieu, Rydalian Laurels! that have grown And spread as if ye knew that days might come When ye would shelter in a happy home, On this fair Mount, a Poet of your own, One who ne'er ventured for a Delphic crown To sue the God ; but, haunting your green shade All seasons through, is humbly pleased to braid Ground-flowers, beneath your guardianship, self-sown, Farewell ! no minstrels now with harp new-strung For summer wandering quit their household bowers ; Yet not for this wants Poesy a tongue To cheer the Itinerant on whom she pours Her spirit, while he crosses lonely moors, Or musing sits forsaken halls among. C 3 I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide, As being past away. Vain sympathies ! For, backward, Duddon, as I cast my eyes, I see what was, and is, and will abide ; Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide; The Form remains, the Function never dies ; While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise, We Men, who in our morn of youth defied The elements, must vanish ; be it so ! Enough, if something from our hands have power To live, and act, and serve the future hour ; And if, as toward the silent tomb we go, Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know. C w 3 Serving no haughty Muse, my hands have here Disposed some cultured Flowerets (drawn from spots Where they bloomed singly, or in scattered knots), Each kind in several beds of one parterre ; Both to allure the casual Loiterer, And that, so placed, my Nurslings may requite Studious regard with opportune delight, Nor be unthanked, unless I fondly err. But metaphor dismissed, and thanks apart, Reader, farewell ! My last words let them be If in this book Fancy and Truth agree ; If simple Nature trained by careful Art Through It have won a passage to thy heart ; Grant me thy love, I crave no other fee ! FOUR HUNDRED AND FORTY COPIES PRINTED AT THE RIVERSIDE PRESS CAMBRIDGE IN SEPTEMBER MDCCCCX FOR HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY /<<